


The Art of Emotional Abstinence

by anactoriatalksback



Category: Silicon Valley (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-30
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2019-04-30 03:56:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14488275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anactoriatalksback/pseuds/anactoriatalksback
Summary: Jared tries emotional abstinence for Lent. Richard doesn't make it easy.





	The Art of Emotional Abstinence

Abstinence comes easily to Jared.

Doing without. Giving up. Delaying gratification. Putting up. Shutting up.

It hardly counted as a virtue when he was a child. You can't give up what you don't have.

But, now he's come to man's estate, Jared finds it's a salutary experience to try deprivation. In small, controlled bursts. As a thought experiment. A reminder. A ritual sacrifice to Donald, aged seven and eating one page of the  _Velveteen Rabbit_  because he couldn't ignore his stomach anymore and Auntie Greta had used the grocery money to buy scratch-offs. To Donald, aged eleven and finding that he'd left his mother's photograph with his old foster family and they wouldn't let him have it back. To Donald, aged seventeen and switching to perfumeless fabric softener because his therapist had such terrible allergies and such kind eyes even though he overheard her once calling him 'the little serial killer'.

There's something comforting about it, thinks Jared. The knowledge that he has something to give up, that it is his hand, his will that relinquishes, or forebears. It's....titillating, a little. Like Jared's the despot of a tiny island, casting a lazy eye over trembling, almond-eyed virgins, wondering which to cast into the volcano.

Jared wasn't chosen, of course. Story of his life, really.

But that's good, he tells himself. He was spared to watch over Richard - his Captain, the bringer of a new internet, a new world, a light in dark places, a Lucifer reborn.

'Lucifer' in the sense of 'lightbringer', to be clear. Not...not the other thing.

Though Richard does look like an angel, like a Goya angel, and Jared personally would follow him into hell.

Not, of course, that he needs to.

In any case, Jared is John the Baptist - no, Mary Magdalene, plucked by Richard from the darkness to emerge into the fierce blazing light forged in the stews of garages and a bathtub that had clearly never seen a scrubber.

A light sparking from Richard's eyes, his absurd curls, his beautiful mind. A light that Jared carries within him, that he guards as jealously as he guards the lightbringer.

But Jared is contemplating the results of his latest personal audit (once every three weeks), and he is concerned.

And what concerns him is this.

It is right, for example, that Jared care for his Captain. That he attend to files, and briefings, and administration. That he make sure that he eats and that he's presentable at black-tie dinners where he's the public face of the company. Jared can even allow himself a quiet, modest glow of satisfaction at smoothing his Captain's path, at playing his small part in steering their ship off the rocks lurking treacherously beneath the surface, out towards the open waters.

However, he can _not_ allow himself the hot dark pulsing, deep in his veins, when he sees that Richard is flagging and nobody else has thought to bring him a sandwich. When he - and he alone - sees the delicate new-leaf green in his cheeks and steers him towards the bathroom long before anyone - Richard included - even knows of his distress. When Richard fidgets in his suit and Jared is the only one allowed to tie that blue tie that brings out those huge, impossibly bright eyes. The thought of Gavin profaning Richard's beautiful throat with even the shadow of his coarse, grasping fingers....it makes Jared's own fingers clench with that cold, purposeful fury that the CIA once thought they might use to soup up their disappointingly docile supersoldiers.

No, that Jared cannot allow. He cannot permit himself to....gloat, like a dragon over his hoard, at the thought of every flush, every downward turn of the mouth, every tatter, every serration to those beautiful, untended nails.

He cannot. He will not. He must not.

Jared knows what he must do. There's an art to giving up, as Jared knows well. It hurts less when it is weighed, when it is marked and mourned.

And what better salutation than liturgy?

Lent has forty days. For those forty days Jared will abstain from tending to Richard, from pressing food and drink on him, from ironing his shirts or fixing his collars, from looking in on him, from hovering over him, from the sweet heralds of present distress, present need, and future calm. Calm that Jared delivers.

Abstinence is an art, like everything else. Jared does it exceedingly well.

And one of the things he has learned, in his experiments with doing without, is that cold turkey is really the only way.

So on day one, when Jared sees Richard press the heels of his palms against his eyes, he snatches his hands away from the desk where he keeps his aloe-and-cucumber compress. He fixes his eyes sternly on his workstation. _Breathe in_ , he tells himself. _Breathe out_.

On day two, Jared lets the new intern make Richard’s tea. Richard winces, slightly, because it’s too strong – Jared could have told him it was too strong, the intern let it steep exactly three-eighths of a minute too long, at the most _critical_ juncture, oh _Richard_ – but Jared won’t say anything, because it’s Richard’s place to speak, not Jared’s, Jared has rules, he’s done this before.

On days three, four and five, Jared gnaws his bottom lip ‘til the blood runs as he watches Richard’s lips pucker as he sips.

On day six, Richard stops by Jared’s desk holding a steaming mug.

‘It’s…a little….’ Richard leans forward, conspiratorially, empty hand falling close to Jared’s, ‘little. Strong. Y’know?’

I know, Jared screams inwardly, of course it’s too strong, that slack-jawed nincompoop, that clodpole, that knuckle-dragging omnishambles, what has he been doing to that tea, is he diving for pearls, how long does he think he needs it to brew, it must be scraping itself out of Richard’s poor delicate stomach from the inside, what agonies Richard must be suffering, if only, if only, if only –

He takes in a long, shaking breath. ‘Oh – oh, dear’, he says, weakly.

Richard gives him a long look and then walks back to his desk.

In week two, Richard begins sighing and tutting whenever he has a mug of tea in his hand. The intern locks himself in the bathroom. Jared is dispatched to talk him out. He murmurs soothingly until the intern stops crying. Turning a deaf ear to his own protests, he gives the intern the precise recipe for Richard’s tea.

Afterwards, Richard is polite whenever the intern quakingly presents him with a mug. Flutteringly, stammeringly polite, profuse with gratitude.

Jared sees Richard pour away the tea. He pretends it didn’t happen. Tells himself sternly to forget what he saw.

It doesn’t work, and Jared tells himself to look away now if Richard so much as looks like he’s reaching for a mug.

In week three, Richard stops shaving. It doesn’t look deliberate, and he doesn’t look bad, precisely, Jared thinks he looks rather raffish actually, positively piratical. Less piratical are the untucked, crumpled shirts that look like he’s upended his laundry basket to get at them. _Before_ they go to the laundromat.

Jared tells himself he’ll intercede before Richard goes out to meet investors looking like that, he has to, he must, it’s for the good of Pied Piper. Sadly, he hasn’t foreseen Monica’s unexpected drop-by, and has to brace himself for her look of reproach as she leaves.

In week four, Richard starts biting his nails again. Jared’s fingers draw themselves into claws as he sees those telltale draggles, those wet curling little snags. Why has Richard started again, the company’s in a state of rare and blessed security, there shouldn’t be anything the matter, why, why, why, if he could, if Jared could, but he can’t, there are rules, Jared knew this would happen, he had to be prepared, it’s never easy to quit, and Jared didn’t think it would, but _Richard_.

In week five, Richard calls Jared into his office.

‘Jared, is…is everything okay?’

Jared starts. Richard’s seen him, of course, watching, lurking like an emaciated ambulant gargoyle.

He nods, as brightly as he can manage. ‘Of course, Richard.’ He offers a smile, knows it’s twisting into a sheepish rictus, and can’t blame Richard for wincing.

‘No, I – I just…’ Richard nods. ‘O – okay, then.’

Jared gets up to leave, telling himself with all the authority he can muster that he is not allowed to take pleasure in his Captain’s munificence, in the sunlight of his benevolence, the balm of his care.

Richard’s still frowning at Jared, and Jared can’t hold back the smile – wider, again, that overflowing gratitude that he’s told makes him look like a melting waxwork.

But Richard smiles back – uncertainly, but a little reassured.

Jared tell himself not to skip back to his desk. He very nearly succeeds.

In week six, it all goes to [and here Jared’s Auntie Marcia steps in to click her tongue at his language]..well, it all goes to heck.

In week six, Richard looks as though he’s decided to enact the _Lost Weekend_ every night. His stubble grows out with such ferocity that even Jared would be hard put to it to call him rakish or raffish or swashbuckling or anything other than a garden grown to seed, with things rank and gross in nature possessing it. He doesn’t change his shirt. Jared thinks he’s stopped sleeping. He’s a tatterdemalion, a vagabond, a frankly uncanny doppelganger for Mad Willie on the street, who picked a fight with Jared because his imaginary pet weasel liked Jared better.

And Jared – oh, Jared is beside himself, his nails dig into his palms with the effort of keeping from reaching out to his Captain, from beseeching him to tell him why, what ails him, what can Jared do, what _wouldn’t_ Jared do.

At night, they line up at the foot of his bed. Thirty-five days of Jared’s neglect, of his selfish, masturbatory, solipsistic eye on himself, his own needs, his own spiritual health.

 _Look at him_ , they hiss to him. _Look at him_. _Dream about him, about the light you are snuffing out with your callous indifference_.

Jared stops sleeping too. He thinks, dimly, that there is a solace to this small vigil, to solidarity with his Captain. However futile, however unremarked or vain, there is comfort in it.

He should, of course, have realised that his defences rely on a watchful, well-rested inward eye.

So on day thirty-nine, Jared is by no means fully equipped for the sight that greets him.

Richard is hunched over his computer, fingers twitching over his mouse. His skin is nearly blue in the dawn half-light, his eyes huge as he stares at his screen. There’s an untouched sandwich on the plate next to him. He’s bitten his nails down to the quick. There’s a small smear of dried blood on the desk next to his mousepad as Richard’s scraped his poor abused fingers.

Jared can feel the threads snap, one by one.

* * *

 

‘Get up’, says Jared.

Richard’s staring into Jared’s face. Jared’s… in his office, looming over his chair, he…this isn’t…

‘Get up, Richard’, says Jared again.

Richard obeys. Shuffles after Jared. Sits when he’s told to sit. Watches Jared make him a sandwich. Eats when he’s told to eat.

Thinks – watches himself thinking, scolds himself for thinking – _fucking finally_.

Jared doesn’t…look great. He hasn’t been sleeping, his skin’s purple under his eyes, and the eyes themselves are just….huge and burning, burning in his face.

‘Richard.’

The name’s spoken on a rushing outward breath, and Richard shuts his eyes at the sheer weight of it.

Jared’s gonna scold him, he thinks, and he thinks _I’ve never been so happy_.

His finger beats a little tattoo against the desk, and then twinges as the cracked skin at the tip protests.

Oh, yeah. The nail-biting.

He stares into Jared’s eyes – Jared looking at him, really at him, for the first time in fucking _weeks_ – and thinks _Worth it_.

‘Richard, tell me, you have to tell me what’s wrong, I’ll help you, we’ll fix it, we’ll figure it out, I’ll do anything, _anything_ for you, Richard, you know I will, but you can’t, oh, Richard, you can’t do this to yourself, you can’t, I won’t, I can’t tell you to, to, to, I wouldn’t presume, but Richard, if you knew what it’s done to me, watching you, I don’t, don’t have the words, I - ’

Richard grins, can’t help himself, there’s a little bubble inside his chest and it’ll burst if he doesn’t do something with his face. ‘’S OK’, he says. ‘It’s – it’s all good, baby.’

‘All _good_? Richard, how can you - ’

‘You said you were OK’, says Richard. ‘I – I asked you, and you said.’ He looks meaningfully at Jared. ‘You’re _not_ OK. You haven’t been sleeping, you weren’t – you were, were weird, you – you said it was, you said you were OK, you wouldn’t say, you - ’

Jared’s eyes get, if possible, even huger, and then his face crumples. To Richard’s horror, Jared goes from not-crying to basically 100% waterworks in the space of one nanosecond.

‘Lent’, he says, not even bothering to wipe his tears.

‘…What?’

‘I…I gave up one of my pleasures – my keenest pleasures – for Lent, Richard.’

‘Still don’t - ’

‘You’, says Jared, and he’s just, like, openly sobbing now, it’s horrible, like he still looks…oh, Jared looks…um, yeah, moving on, but also no, Jared, why, no, ‘I – if you knew how it feels, Captain, to serve you, to, to tend to you - ’

(Richard files away ‘serve’ and ‘tend to’ for later Cautiously Contemplating and Having 99 Confusing Feelings About consumption.)

‘I – so – when you were – with the tea, and – ‘

‘I _tried_ ’, says Jared, on a wail, ‘but there’s been something, Richard, some crisis, oh of all the times for you to need me, Captain, for you to lean on me and find me a broken reed, a craven time-server, a, a, a fair-weather lickspittle, oh, Richard, I - ’

‘You’re – no’, says Richard, waving his hands, ‘Jared, no, you, you’re not, I - ’

‘A COO of shreds and patches - ’

‘Jared - ’

‘A mendacious traitor, true to no word - ’

‘Jared’, says Richard, loudly. Jared stops and blinks at him. ‘You’re – you’re not, you. Look. It’s – when’s Lent over?’

Jared sniffs. ‘Tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow’, says Richard. ‘Tomorrow, see? You – you held out.’

Jared sniffs again. ‘Not – not quite, I - ’

‘No’, says Richard hurriedly, before Jared can launch into another jeremiad about his own unworthiness or whatever, ‘you – you did it. I’m - ’ he swallows, ‘I’m. Proud of you.’

And Jared’s incredulous stare, his joyous sunshine smile, make Richard feel very warm and very safe and very dizzy all at once.

‘I mean, I - ’ and Richard coughs, ‘I – I didn’t make it easy for you, I know.’

Jared’s silence is loyal, complicated and damning.

‘But’, says Richard, ‘you – you were good. So good. I – you should – should be proud.’

Jared takes in a shuddering breath. ‘But Richard, are you - ’

‘And’, says Richard, speaking very hurriedly, ‘maybe. Maybe you were. Right? About. The. Not looking after me thing? I mean - ’ As Jared’s eyes widen, ‘Like. You shouldn’t have to. I mean. We can. We’ll get. Someone to. To, so you can, you don’t have to - ’

‘Richard’, says Jared, ‘I – don’t you understand? I said – Richard, I _love_ doing those things.’ He swallows. Richard tracks the bob of his Adam’s apple and feels very, very thirsty, ‘I – I love them _too much_.’

Richard swallows. When he speaks, his voice sounds strange to his ears. ‘I – I like it. When you.’

Jared’s face is doing a million things and Richard wants to grab him, tell him to slow down so Richard can watch, can catalogue and cross-reference against every single item in his secret Jared Things Dossier.

‘Richard….’

‘But you don’t have to’, says Richard, ‘do things. For me to.’ He makes a little gesture, ‘you know. We can still. We’re’, he coughs, ‘Butch Cassidy and his COO.’

And Richard thinks for a minute that Jared will lunge at him and he’s about to straighten up so he can, you know, so he can, can, if Jared needs him to hug him back he will, he will, it’s Jared, he can.

But Jared’s staring at him with his hands clasped in front of him and looking like Richard’s just tossed him the keys to his own planet and Richard. Just.

Maybe _Richard_ can hug _Jared_. That might be.

Maybe?

It could…

That might…

‘Oh, _Richard_.’

And Richard can feel his eyes flutter shut at the sound of his name in Jared’s voice.

‘Richard?’

Richard’s eyes open.

‘I – I’m not sure of the rules, but – if I ask you to get some sleep, will you?’

Richard can feel his face crack open. His throat is very tight, but he manages a nod. ‘But’ he says, ‘you – you have to too.’

Abstinence is an art, Jared tells him later. 

Richard doesn't think he has the knack for it.

**Author's Note:**

> My tumblr handle is itsevidentvery, if you'd like to come yell with me about these two fools there.


End file.
